


The Descent

by arts_and_letters



Series: Good Intentions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-A Study in Pink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes showing the early days of Sherlock’s drug use and the evolution of his relationship with his brother, Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from Virgil's the Aeneid. Here's a rough translation:
> 
> The descent to hell is easy;  
> The gates of dark Dis stand open night and day,  
> But to retrace your steps and go out to the upper airs  
> That is the work, that is the labor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This serves as a prequel to my earlier work, The Road to Hell. They are set in the same universe and deal with the same series of events, although it’s not necessary to read that story first. This story is set pre-Study in Pink, probably roughly a decade before that case. (Very roughly. I don't have an exact timeline in mind.)

In the beginning, it was all about the boredom. 

Boredom—it haunted him, wrecked him, made him want to claw his own eyes out. 

Without stimulation, without distraction, his brain would begin to tear itself apart. He was trapped—couldn’t escape—even when he had the whole world at his disposal. 

(Feeling imprisoned when you have total freedom is the worst of all possible worlds.) 

He had his experiments, of course. And he could manufacture other distractions, at times. But it wasn’t enough, there wasn’t enough, there was never enough for him to do, to keep him going, to keep the demons at bay. 

Sometimes his studies were sufficient to distract him, for a few hours at least. Occasionally if he harassed Mycroft, his older brother would find a way to entertain him, but Mycroft was away more and more these days.  

But then other days, nothing was enough.

Those days seemed to get more and more frequent with every passing year. 

What do other people—normal people, simple people, stupid people—do with their time?  
  
Socialize, probably. Make friends, go out with friends, talk to friends, have relationships. 

How common. How dull. How _boring._  

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have friends. 

He doesn’t need them, and he doesn’t want them. 

What he wants—what he needs, what he craves—is a distraction. 

Freedom from boredom. A way to escape the suffocating dullness of day-to-day life. 

How do other people bear it? How do they go through their lives without collapsing under the weight of this stultifying drudgery? 

Ultimately, he found the answer to these questions—the answer to his prayers—while he was on a case. 

He wasn’t actually on a case, per se. Rather, he had spent all day wandering the back alleys of London, following police cars, talking to the homeless men and women he ran into, in the hopes of scaring up some kind of intrigue, some kind of mystery that he could solve. In the absence of anything that entertaining, he would have settled for something mildly dangerous. 

It was in this pursuit that the answer hit him. 

Quite literally, in fact. 

It was late in the evening, already dark, when he turned around a corner, and collided head first with a man who had been running at full speed. The man went sprawling to the ground, although Sherlock managed to stay on his feet. 

Shaking himself off, Sherlock glanced down, recognized the man, and said, “Hello, Walter. Outrunning the police again?” 

The man looked startled for a moment, but then the tension left him when he recognized the familiar face. “Ah, Sherlock, didn’t recognize ya at first.”  
  
“What was it this time? Breaking and entering? A little assault and battery?”  
  
“Nah, nothing like that. Bought some coke off of an undercover officer.”  
  
“That seems rather foolish.”  
  
“I didn’t know it at the time, now did I?”  
  
“Hmm, so now you’re trying to outrun them?” 

“Yeah, I think I lost them.”  
  
“It rather sounds like they’re on their way now.”

Even with his inferior hearing, Walter could hear the sirens only moments after Sherlock’s comment. 

His face paled. “Damn it! Cover for me?” 

“Why would I do that?”  
  
“I’ll give you my stash.”  
  
“Ah, trying to frame me, then?”  
  
“They’ll never search a posh bloke like you.”

“What would I want with your stash anyway?”  
  
“Have you ever tried the stuff?”  
  
“No, obviously not.”  
  
“Then you have no idea what you’re missing.”  
  
“What exactly am I missing?”  
  
“It’s the best, the high. It makes you feel like you could do anything, like you’re the most powerful person in the world, like nothing can touch you. Everything, it just—” 

“It just what? 

“It’s like, every moment becomes exciting.”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but then he heard the sound of sirens coming closer.  
  
“Here, give it to me.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes, Walt, give it over.”  
  
Without another word, Walter dug into his pockets and handed the drugs over to Sherlock, who quickly shoved them inside the back pocket of his trousers, before wrapping his coat more tightly around himself.  
  
“Thanks, Sherlock.”  
  
“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t. Now _run_.”  
  
And Walter did just that. 

For his part, Sherlock turned the corner, and continued casually strolling down the street.  
  
One of the officers shouted to him, “Sir, did you see a man run by here?”  
  
“What kind of man?”  
  
“Short, balding, no shoes, torn up coat.”  
  
“Ah yes, I think he went that way.” Sherlock motioned in the opposite direction that Walter had taken.  
  
“Thank you, sir.”  
  
And with that, the officer hopped in his car and sped off. 

Sherlock didn’t go home after that. Instead, he went to the lab, where he let himself in using a key card he swiped off of one of the men in charge. Once he was there, he spent the next hour running various analyses of the substance. 

After satisfying himself as to the identity of the white powdery substance Walter left him with—cocaine, fairly high caliber by all measures—he was left with a decision. 

No point in selling it. He neither needs nor wants the money, and he certainly doesn’t want the hassle.  
  
Does he dispose of it? Devise some sort of experiment? Maybe the effect of cocaine on a colony of bees?

Then he remembers his conversation with Walter— 

_Every moment becomes exciting_

Maybe a different kind of experiment, a quick test—the effects of cocaine on Sherlock Holmes’s suffocating boredom. 

What would it be like? A little excitement, a little danger, a little distraction.

It was a foolish idea, of course. He knew it from the moment the notion first hit him. But, he was nothing if not reckless, especially in the pursuit of adventure.  

And at this moment, after days of nothing, he would do anything to set the world on fire, even just for one night.

And so, right there in the uni chemistry lab, after calculating his optimal intake, he carefully measured out the appropriate amount—using an analytical balance, naturally—and then he deftly arranged it in a thin line along the crease of the weigh paper.

He stared at it for a few moments—his heart was already pounding in anticipation—and then he leaned over, covered his left nostril with his index finger, and insufflated the white powder. 

It burned as it rushed past the mucous membranes of his nasal passages—that much was to be expected—and a few minutes later he would feel the tell tale post nasal drip as it made it’s way down his throat. 

But those minor discomforts were nothing in comparison to the rush—the high. 

It came on faster and stronger than he could have ever possibly anticipated. His heart was pounding, his face felt warm—but it was a comforting glow, nothing uncomfortable about it. He felt stronger and faster—he felt powerful. 

It felt good. 

Whereas a few moments before he had been trapped in a fog, now everything seemed so clear, so bright, so exciting.

The world was interesting again. 

A million ideas welled up in his mind all at once—experiments to perform, new avenues to explore—so much to do, so much to plan, so much promise. 

But first it was time to finally organize his lab station, a task he had been putting off for months, but now, he figured, why not?

Once that task was complete, he dove into two experiments he was already in the middle of and then got started on a brand new one. 

And after 3 more lines—and four more hours—there was only enough of the original sample for one more hit, and not even a full one at that. He should probably save it for later, when he absolutely needed it. 

(How quickly this went from being a whim to a want to a need)

 But at the same time he could already feel the glow fade, his pulse begin to settle, leaving behind a restless, irritated, gnawing sensation, that reminded him strongly of the feeling that always gripped him after the conclusion of a particularly compelling experiment. 

It left him empty, wanting, desperate for more.  
  
With his experiments, with his work, it was never so easy to answer that craving, but now—now, it was at his fingertips, ready to soothe the ache, to quell the boredom. It would be so easy, so easy to dip in again, to buy himself a little more excitement, just a few more moments of respite from the unending drudgery of existing. 

He should wait—of course he should. That would be the _sensible_ thing to do. If Mycroft were here— 

_He would have already called the police and had you hauled off in handcuffs._

_Yes, but he’s always been such a stick in the mud._

_He would be furious about this, of course_

Which only made the whole endeavor more enticing. 

And so, without any more consideration, he dumped out the remaining powder onto the weigh paper, lined it up—far less precisely than the first time—and inhaled every last glistening white particle. 

Immediately after taking the last hit, he grabbed his bag and walked out of the lab, not even bothering to lock the door behind him. 

The cool air and the pleasant buzz of the London streets were even more intoxicating than usual. Although he did wonder to himself—

_How had it become morning already?_

But he couldn't find it in himself to be troubled by the confusingly speed passage of time.

He made his way along the pavement without any explicit destination in mind, although he walked as if he had purpose—and maybe he did have a purpose, albeit a subconscious one, because fifteen minutes later, he found himself on a street corner frequented by several of his homeless contacts. 

“What’s up Sherl?”  
  
“Looking for Walt. Any idea where he might be?”  
  
“Try the alley behind that Italian sandwich shop. He usually likes to sleep it off by the bins.”  
  
Sherlock nodded his thanks, and then spun around on his heel. 

When he arrived at the aforementioned alleyway, he saw Walt curled up on a trash bag, dosing lightly. 

Sherlock nudged Walt with the toe of his shoe until the other man opened his eyes. 

“Hello, Walt.”

Walt immediately scrambled to his feet, looking vaguely uneasy.

“Sherlock, did they—” 

Sherlock held up his hand to stop Walter mid speech, and then he said calmly and clearly, despite the pounding of his heart in his chest— 

“I need more.” 

And that’s how it began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the opening chapter! It took me awhile to get this first chapter out, but I've got the whole story mapped out, and several other chapters partially written. (I have the bad habit of writing like five different stories all at once, completely out of order. I'm trying to be more disciplined, but my brain isn't very well trained.)
> 
> Oh, and I know there's no Mycroft in this chapter, but I promise he'll play a major part in this story. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and if you have a moment, I'd really love to hear what you think of the first chapter :)


	2. Highs and Lows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally gotten around to posting this second chapter! This is maybe not as polished as it could be, but I really wanted to focus on moving forward with the next chapters for this and my other WIP, so I decided to just go ahead and get this posted.

 

Mycroft is sitting in the kitchen of the family home, having recently returned from a long trip abroad. Their parents are away on one of their American excursions, so for the moment it is only the two brother’s sharing the space. 

Sherlock is still completing his studies at uni, but after an _incident_ with his flatmates, Sherlock was forced to move out, and so he ended up back here, sleeping in his childhood bedroom. 

For his part, Mycroft is reading the newspaper contemplatively, sipping his morning tea and nibbling at a scone, when he is interrupted by a very loud— 

“Hello, brother dear!”  
  
Looking up, Mycroft says mildly, “You’re awfully chipper for 7 in the morning, Sherlock.”  
  
“Is it seven already? 

“Yes, it is. Maybe if you bothered to invest in a watch—although, can you even tell time?”  
  
“Of course I can.”  
  
“Well, it did take you until the age of twelve to learn how to tie your shoes.”  
  
“That wasn’t important.”  
  
They lapse into silence for a few minutes, as Mycroft returns to his breakfast and paper, while Sherlock wanders around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. 

Irritated at the noise and shuffling around, Mycroft asks, “Is there something in particular that you’re looking for, or are you simply trying to be as tiresome as possible?”  
  
“I’m bored.”  
  
“And you think you’ll find the solution to that in the cupboard, do you?”  
  
“Want to play a round of cards? Or operation? Or scrabble? Or Cluedo?”

“Sherlock—” 

“How about deductions?”  
  
“Really—” 

“I’ll start. You’re dressed for work, and you’re up rather early, which is curious behavior for a Sunday—”

“It’s Tuesday, and I’m always up this early, which you would know if you bothered to get out of bed at a reasonable hour.”  
  
“Fine, it’s Tuesday. So you’re preparing to go to work—but if today is Tuesday, and you’re planning to go to the office, then why didn’t you shower before getting dressed? You always shower before going to work. More curious—why are you eating breakfast? You always wait until you’re on the way to the office for that. I would say there’s only one possible conclusion.”  
  
“I have no idea—” 

“Clearly you’re planning on an early morning workout. Of course, if you were like most people, you wouldn’t bother putting on a suit first. You’d just leave in your workout clothing, but I suppose you may not want all of London to see you in that frankly alarming Lycra get up that you seem to favor for reasons unknown.” 

“Are you done yet?”  
  
“I’m only just getting started. Now, where was I? Oh yes, you arrived home quite late last night. Some after work socializing, perhaps? But with whom? You couldn’t possibly—”

“Sherlock, what in god’s name—”

“It’s not your turn yet.”  
  
“I’m not taking turns, and I’m not playing your bloody game. What on earth have you done to yourself?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re implying.”  
  
“I’m not implying anything. I’m _asking_ why you’re behaving like—” 

Mycroft stops mid speech as a very unwanted deduction hits him full force. 

Sherlock is too busy inspecting the dust on the bookshelf to notice the way his brother abruptly clenches his jaw or the lines of tension that suddenly stand out on his face. 

“Sherlock, even you could not possibly be foolish enough to experiment with ‘street drugs.’”  
  
That’s enough to distract Sherlock from his examinations of the dust patterns. He turns around to face Mycroft and says, as calmly as possible, “Of course not.”  
  
Mycroft quickly stands up and closes the distance between them, and silently inspects his brother’s appearance— 

 _Faster breathing patterns, inflamed nasal mucous membranes, visible jugular pulse, tachychardia, perspiration, tremors, excitability_

Then Mycroft steps back and spins around on his heel so his back is to Sherlock. He brings one hand up to scrub his face then abruptly lets it drop back to his side.  
  
Finally he says in a dangerously low voice, “Cocaine? Really, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Instead he swiftly turns around and leaves the room, and a moment later he flings the front door open and walks out into the streets. 

He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him.

 

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t return home for another the next twelve hours. 

He spends the better part of the morning walking around London, completely absorbed in his manic thoughts, with occasional breaks to have fevered conversations with random passersby. 

When he feels the high begin to fade and the glow die down, he disappears into the loo or a back alley and does another line. 

Around two in the afternoon, he tires of walking the streets and hails a taxi. A short time later he is back in the lab, where he spent the better part of the next six hours simultaneously running four different experiments with another line here or there to keep the high going. 

His brain has always been a force to be reckoned with but now, with the cocaine—it’s like an otherworldly machine.

Or at least that’s how it feels as he races around lab, stopping to jot down notes about his conclusions, further avenues of exploration, anything to capture the brilliant insights that keeps flooding his brain. 

The whole time he can’t help but marvel at the way that the world seems so bright and exciting and new. He feels powerful and energized and not even remotely bored. 

It’s wonderful, so wonderful that he’s willing to ignore the way his heart feels like it’s on the verge of exploding, how his face seemed to be on fire, and the way his hands shake with enough force that he had to call in the lab tech to help him use the pipette. 

He’s wrapping up one of the experiments when he notices the shift from elation to restless irritability. He feels tired, worn out, but also on edge. 

He considers doing another line, reached into his pocket, and realizes there’s nothing left. 

Probably for the best, really. He could use a little rest, even though that voice in his brain is still screaming— 

 _More more more more more more more more_  

It had always been there, that niggling little voice, that demanding, hungry, desperate feeling—that want, that need—but it had been shapeless, formless. 

Until now. 

Whereas before it had just been craving for more of _something,_ now he knows exactly what he wants.  
  
More drugs.

After all, how could he not want more of something that feels this good? Why would he ever want this feeling to stop? 

He doesn’t. He wants it to go on forever. 

But when he tracks down Walter, the first thing the homeless man says to him is— 

“You look kind of strung out, mate.”  
  
“I _feel_ fine,” Sherlock bites out.  
  
Walt is undeterred by the sharp response. “Maybe you should give it a rest for awhile, all I’m saying.”  
  
“If I wanted to listen to a lecture, I would go talk to my brother. Now if you don’t want to sell me anything—and don’t think I’m unaware of how overpriced this is—” 

“Look, I’m not saying I won’t sell it to you, but I’m all out right now.”

Before Sherlock can respond, Walt adds, hastily, “I should have more by tomorrow. If you want, I could drop by and—”

Immediately, Sherlock interjects with, “No, meet me here, tomorrow at 5.” 

“Yeah, sure, no problem Sherl.”

“And don’t call me that.”  
  
“Okay, whatever you like. Just go home and relax.”

At the word _relax_ , Sherlock scoffs as he turns around and flags a taxi to take him back home. 

  
  
 

 

He prays that his brother will be out of the house when he returns, but once again luck is not on his side. 

When he walks into the house, he sees his brother there, in his usual chair pretending to read the newspaper. 

As Sherlock enters the room, Mycroft looks up and says, “Hello, brother dear. Did you have an enjoyable day parading around London like a common junkie?”  
  
In no mood for Mycroft’s jabs, Sherlock snapped, “Go to hell, Mycroft.”  
  
“Such language. It looks like your new friends are influencing your vocabulary as well as your drug consumption. What other lovely habits should we be expecting you to add to your repertoire? Breaking and entering, perhaps? A spot of assault and battery? ”  
  
Sherlock feels a deep rage starting to take hold as the restless, gnawing irritability find a perfect target in his irritating, vexing, smug older brother. 

However, with his last reserve of good sense, Sherlock tries to walk out the room without saying anything more. His brother has other plans, though. 

“We need to talk, Sherlock.”  
  
“No, I really don’t think we do.”  
  
“Sit down, now, or I will be calling Mummy.”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes but decides that compliance will likely be the fastest way to get Mycroft to leave him alone. 

So, he sits down on the couch and stares up at the ceiling, legs crossed, with his right foot moving back and forth in the air convulsively as his fingers unconsciously beat out a rhythm on the couch cushion.  
  
Mycroft takes it all in—the nervous movements, the traces of perspirations—but does his best to keep his tone level, as he says, “Promise me you won’t ever do this again.”  
  
Contemptuously, Sherlock says, “Stop pretending to be Mummy. I don’t have to promise you anything.”  
  
Ignoring the jab, Mycroft says, “This is ridiculous, Sherlock. You’re far too smart to be engaging in such reckless behavior.”  
  
“I thought I was stupid. Isn’t that what you always say?”  
  
“Come, come, now is not the time to rehash petty arguments—” 

At that, Sherlock stands up abruptly, shouts, “Fuck off,” and leaves the room. 

He locks himself in his bedroom to keep Mycroft out, but immediately he feels like the walls are closing in. Everything grates on his nerves, from the ticking of the clock on the wall, to the constriction of his clothing, to the slight coolness of the air, and especially the occasional sound that came from Mycroft moving around in the house. 

For awhile he stares at the ceiling and tries to sink into the safe place within his brain—a trick he developed as a young boy. He finds it most useful these days as a way to aid in storing and retrieving useful information, but originally his mind palace served as an escape hatch.

Whenever the world becomes too overwhelming—whether it be because of boredom, his brother, or some other myriad insult from the external world—he can just lose himself in his mind. He would spend hours exploring and creating. He learned how to hide away his emotions and forget where to find them. What started as a room gradually became many rooms until eventually it turned into a castle. 

But now, even that doesn’t give him relief. It takes effort—even after all these years—it takes some measure of concentration to immerse himself in the world of his mind, and he’s just too tired. 

Besides, why should he have to fight to stay sane when he’s just discovered an easier way? 

Eventually, he gets out of bed and starts to pace in circles, around and around, mumbling under his breath, his movements becoming more and more fevered.

When he tires of pacing, he digs around in his closet until he finds his secret stash of cigarettes—the one that Mycroft hadn’t even managed to locate. After a quick sear to find some matches, he opens the window, lights a cigarette, and relishes the minor relief that the nicotine provides. It’s only a partial relief, but it’s something. 

Of course, his brother smells the smoke after Sherlock starts in on his third cigarette, and Mycroft comes banging on the door, and so Sherlock puts out the final cigarette, and yells at Mycroft, “Piss of.”

Finally, at just past 1 am, he hears his brother retire to his own room. After waiting 30 minutes to make sure Mycroft wouldn’t re-emerge, Sherlock carefully opens the door to his room—not wanting to alert Mycroft to his movements—and enters the hall, walking quietly past his brother’s bedroom door, until he reaches the toilet. 

He flips on the light, closes the door behind him, and then stares at himself in the mirror. He’s pale—well paler than usual—his hair is sticking out in every direction—again, more than usual—and when he tilts his head up he can see the pulse throbbing along his jugular vein. 

He’s certainly looked better, but even at his worst, at least he will always look better than Mycroft.  
  
(Looks and physical fitness are the only two things he’s ever consistently bested his brother at.)  
  
He turns on the tap and holds his hand under the cool water then splashes some of the water on his face. 

There’s still a bad taste in his mouth from the cocaine post-nasal drip so he opens the medicine cabinet to look for a bottle of mouthwash. 

As he reaches for the bright blue bottle, his eyes catch sight of a very different bottle.  
  
A medicine bottle—still partially filled with pills and the words _Mycroft Holmes_ and _oxy_ _codone_ on the label.  
  
Ah yes, a remnant from when Mycroft had to have his tonsils removed a few years back.

(What a blessed event that was. His brother could barely speak for days.) 

And maybe he’s been blessed twice. A spot of oxycodone—a synthetic opioid that could calm the storm, ease the demands of his brain, that cry of _more more more more more more more._  

What’s the harm? He’s already made his foray into buying street drugs. Borrowing a few pills that Mycroft never plans on taking hardly bears comparison. 

Satisfied with his internal rationalization, Sherlock grabs the bottle and tucks it in his dressing gown, and then leaves the loo, making his way to the living area. 

He sits down on the sofa, his legs stretched out lengthwise, his head reclining on the armrest, and pops two of the pills without bothering to check the dosage. 

After 15 minutes of watching crap telly and waiting for the pills to take effect, he gets up and decides to pour himself a glass of wine. It’s not his usual custom—it’s more in line with Mycroft’s taste—but it seems the thing to do. 

After half an hour and half a glass of wine, he feels the effects start to take hold. The faint—but pleasant—buzz, the sense of ease, the calm, the quiet. 

Sherlock decides to pop another pill, and then a few minutes later, another because, why not? 

After awhile, the pure pleasure, the sense of ease gives way to an overwhelming sense of tiredness. Usually he hates sleeping, fights it with all his might, but now, it seems so inviting. 

He could get up and go to the bed, but his bedroom is so far away, the sofa seems more than adequate. 

Without a second thought, he turns over so that he’s on his side, with his head on one end of the couch and his feet hanging off the other. 

The heaviness is so overpowering, so welcoming, so appealing, although he only as a few moments to enjoy it because almost immediately after closing his eyes, he drifts off into the comforting embrace of the alcohol and the opiates.

  

  
 

Mycroft has been tossing and turning for the last several hours, unable to sleep, unable to relax. All he can think about is Sherlock, his foolish brother. 

How could Sherlock be so careless? 

And more to the point, what will they do about this mess? 

Just after 3 am, Mycroft gives up and gets out of bed. If he can’t sleep, he might as well distract himself by catching up on some paperwork for the office. 

As he walks down the hall, he sees Sherlock’s door slightly ajar. When he peers in, he finds Sherlock’s bed is empty and the room is deserted. 

There are no other sounds in the house, but he makes his way to the living room where the light is still on, and there Mycroft sees Sherlock, on his side, using his hands as a pillow for his head, completely sound asleep. 

For a moment, Mycroft forgets his anger, distracted by the sight of his brother looking so peaceful, so comfortable, so relaxed. 

It reminds him of the early years. Sherlock was such a happy child, so bright and full of life, so smart—although not as smart as Mycroft, of course but still, far ahead of any of his peers. 

But he had a spark that Mycroft could never hope to have. An energy, a force of will—

And Mycroft had such high hopes for him. 

Sherlock did well in school at first. Sure, he got into trouble occasionally for antagonizing some of the other children—and yes, he got involved in more than a few disastrous experiments—and of course, there was more than a fair bit of mischief, like when he was eight and insisted on doing all his homework in ancient Greek, even after Mycroft explained that none of the teachers would be able to understand it, which was probably the point. 

(After Mycroft heard his parents discussing the teacher’s threat to fail Sherlock if he didn’t stop turning in his assignments in foreign languages, Mycroft stayed up late each night translating Sherlock’s homework in his best imitation of Sherlock’s penmanship, which he then slipped into Sherlock’s bag. Fortunately, Sherlock quickly tired of that particular trick, although to this day, Mycroft can still expertly forge his brother’s handwriting.) 

Of course, the good times couldn’t last. He watched Sherlock go through the transformation that each person has to traverse as they come terms with the realization that he’s surrounded by idiots who could never understand his—vastly superior and more complex—inner emotional life.  
  
But that’s what Mycroft was for. He was there to shape Sherlock’s interests, to coach him on how to interact with the masses, and to listen to all of Sherlock’s rants about the frustrations of dealing with those “imbeciles.”  
  
(It was a major triumph when Mycroft finally convinced Sherlock to stop using that word to the students’ and teachers’ faces.) 

Mycroft knew it wasn’t easy. After all, he went through the same thing, and he didn’t have the benefit of an enlightened older brother to help guide him.  
  
(It’s one of the reasons why he begged his parents to give him a sibling—and how he hoped it would be a brother. Someone who would be like him, someone who would understand the joys and the perils and the trials of being like this.) 

But then something happened—something changed. Sherlock drifted away from him, and that bright, vibrant boy turned into a moody, melancholy young man. 

Of course, there’s nothing unusual about an angst-ridden fifteen year old, but Sherlock wasn’t usual. Everything he did had to be taken to the extreme. 

There was the time—shortly after Mycroft left for uni—that their poor, misguided, well-meaning parents tried to force Sherlock to “get involved.”  
  
(Orchestra would seem the obvious choice given Sherlock’s near virtuosity at the violin, but unfortunately he was permanently banned shortly after that incident with—well, Mycroft tries not to remember that particular fiasco. The aftermath probably took _years_ off of their parents lives.) 

Mycroft will never know why his parents thought a sport would be a good choice for Sherlock, although it was probably because that’s what normal kids did, and they so desperately wanted Sherlock to be normal, with the same intensity that Mycroft wanted Sherlock not to be normal. 

After extorting several bribes from their parents, Sherlock acquiesced. He chose track, probably because it would involve the least interaction with other kids. Unsurprisingly, he got himself kicked off the team in short order, after he slipped the star runner a laxative shortly before a major competition. 

When their parents tried to get him to pick a different activity, Sherlock locked himself in his room and refused to leave—or eat or speak.

After three days—and half a week of missed school—Mycroft received a frantic phone call from Mummy, and he managed to convince them to give up on their ill-fated attempt to make Sherlock normal. 

(Sherlock left his room after that, although he refused to speak to any of them for another full week.)

What his parents finally realized is what Mycroft already knew: Sherlock could never be normal, no matter how hard he tried. 

Which is actually how Mycroft wanted things to be. Or at least, that used to be the case.

Mycroft’s worst fear watching Sherlock grow up was that he would be stupid, but now—well, he wouldn’t mind Sherlock being an idiot as long as he was a happy idiot. 

But he’s not—happy, that is. 

Mycroft had been sure that going off to uni would be good for Sherlock. He would have room to explore his academic interests, and maybe he would find his peers slightly more tolerable. 

And things did get better—sort of, sometimes, but now— 

Now they’re dealing with this. 

It’s so hard to imagine Sherlock snorting a line of cocaine when Mycroft sees him here, asleep on the sofa. 

Mycroft can’t help but smile fondly at his memories of a much younger—much smaller—Sherlock falling asleep on this very same couch when they were boys, because he always insisted on staying up late to watch telly with Mycroft, even when it was long past his bedtime. 

Things were so much easier back then. 

Mycroft had concerns but he never thought—could never possibly have imagined—that Sherlock would turn to drugs. 

Forcing himself to stop ruminating on the subject, Mycroft redirects his attention to the present moment. Deciding that it would be wisest not to wake Sherlock, Mycroft picks up a blanket from the back of the sofa. As he prepares to drape it over his brother, he catches sight of something small, something plastic, that is just barely visible from where it’s rolled under the furniture. 

It wasn’t there earlier, Mycroft certainly would have noticed when he was reading the paper that evening.

Mycroft feels the stirrings of something in his gut—dread—but he doesn’t focus on it, doesn’t analyze it too closely. Instead, he bends down, and picks up the object. 

A bottle, a prescription bottle—an _empty_ prescription bottle—with the words _Mycroft Holmes_ and _oxyc_ _odone_ on the label. 

Mycroft feels his heart stop, as he catches sight of the empty wine glass, and the slow—but thankfully visible—breathing patterns of his younger brother. 

As he sinks down into the empty chair, he feels like the world is spinning. 

To his brother’s sleeping form, in a quiet, pained voice, Mycroft asks, “Sherlock, what have you done?”  
  
But Mycroft doesn’t need an answer, and Sherlock doesn’t give him one.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this second chapter! I’m really enjoying writing this story. It’s a great opportunity to fill in some of the back story and explore the relationship between the two brothers further. 
> 
> Oh, and as you may have noticed, that final line from Mycroft is meant to echo Mycroft’s remark when he's in the helicopter at the end of His Last Vow.
> 
>  
> 
> If you have a minute, I'd be really grateful for any feedback about the story so far! I'm doing my best to keep everyone as in character as possible, which isn't always easy, but hopefully I've done a decent job. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	3. Black and Blue

 

When Sherlock walked into the kitchen, Mycroft continued reading his paper for several long minutes before finally looking up at his younger brother, at which point he couldn’t help but ask— 

“Sherlock, what on earth happened to your face?”  
  
Although usually so quick with his comebacks, Sherlock instead stared at his brother blankly for awhile before finally replying, “Last I checked, it was still there.” 

“Have you looked in a mirror?”  
  
“Mirror? No, not all of us spend hours examining ourselves in front of any reflective surface every morning. Of course, we also don’t all have moisturizing routines that monopolize the toilet for—” 

“Well, at least I shower, which is more than I can say for you at the moment.”  
  
“I showered.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“I don’t know. Is it still Tuesday?”  
  
“Tues—it’s Saturday, Sherlock.”  
  
“Hmm, I could have sworn it was Tuesday morning.”  
  
“It’s Saturday _afternoon._ Do you even know what month it is?”  
  
“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
“Yes, I am. But also very tired. I think I’ll just be off to bed—” 

“Sherlock, have you really not looked in a mirror?”  
  
“Why would I?”  
  
“Because you have a black eye, and the left side of your face looks like it’s been dragged across asphalt for forty feet.” 

Sherlock paused, reached a hand up to his face, prodded tenderly along the side, and winced slightly.  
  
“Only ten feet, as I recall.”

“Ten—what the bloody hell happened to you?”  
  
“A bit early for such profanity.”  
  
“It’s four in the afternoon.”  
  
“Ah, yes, that. Really must invest in a watch.”  
  
“Why? So you can pawn it off for more drugs?”  
  
“Is that what you do with all your valuables, Mycroft? Not very wise considering your lofty ambitions.”  
  
“For Christ—Sherlock, what happened last night?”  
  
“I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”  
  
“Don’t make me call Mummy.”  
  
“You wouldn’t.”  
  
“I most certainly would, even though I hate to ruin their adventure in the Grand Canyon. You do know how much they love ‘the outdoors.’” 

“Yes, baffling as it is.”  
  
“Quite.” 

For a moment, they enjoyed the small moment of brotherly humor, before Mycroft’s expression turned serious once again. 

“Have you been to a doctor?”  
  
Sherlock was so caught off guard that he actually started to laugh, before wincing, and cradling his ribs carefully.  
  
Mycroft took the whole scene in and then came to his decision.  
  
“Grab your coat.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because it’s cold outside.”  
  
“I’m not planning to leave the house.”  
  
“I’m well aware that you don’t leave the house until nightfall these days—really, the whole vampire routine doesn’t suit you, although you do have the right complexion for it—but you’ve given me no choice in the matter.”  
  
“I have no idea—” 

“Doctor, now.”  
  
Sherlock stared back, mutinously. 

“Fine, I’ll just be calling Mummy, then.”  
  
Mycroft picked up the phone, started to press the first digit, then the second, and then— 

“No need to interrupt their American adventure just because I tripped over some garbage cans.”  
  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
  
“Why would I lie? Anyway, I’ll go see the bloody doctor. Let me just take a shower—” 

“And give you a chance to sneak out the window again? Grab your coat. I’ll take you to the doctor myself.”  
  
“This is totally unnecessary. I’m perfectly healthy. Fit as a fiddle.”  
  
“Well, then I suppose this will be a very quick visit.”

 

 

                                                                                                                                 

Two and a half hours later, the two brothers were walking back in the house. 

“Three fractured ribs. Three! You could have punctured a lung!”

“Cracked ribs. Just a crack.” 

“Speaking of ‘crack,’ is that what you were after last night? Did you stray a bit from the usual routine?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Don’t play dumb, Sherlock.”  
  
“To hear you tell it, Mycroft, I am dumb. Dumb as a rock.”

“I’ve never said—” 

“Yes, you have.”  
  
“Well, I never meant—” 

“What else could you possibly mean when at every available opportunity you decry my intellectual abilities?” 

“Sherlock, I know what you’re doing.”  
  
“I’m not doing anything.”  
  
“You’re attempting to distract me from the matter at hand, but it won’t work.” 

“Piss off, Mycroft.”  
  
“Ah, very mature.”  
  
“If you’re done picking apart all my personal failings, I’m going to go have a lie down. Unless you want to handcuff me to my bed, that is.”  
  
Mycroft shakes his head, but he doesn’t dignify Sherlock’s comment with a further response. 

Sherlock turns to walk in the direction of his bedroom, but before he leaves the room, Mycroft adds, “Sherlock, do let me know if you need anything.”  
  
Sherlock whirls around, and bites out, “What could I possible need from _you_?”  
  
Undeterred, Mycroft responds, “I don’t know, but I am here if you need something.”  
  
“What I needed were some narcotics to take the edge off of my _broken_ ribs, but I don’t have that because _someone_ forbid the doctor from giving them to me. Not that it’s really any of your concern.”

“Your welfare is absolutely my concern, and you left me with no other choice. How could I let you take those pills knowing that whatever the doctor gave you would be whatever cocktail you plan on knocking back, or injecting, or insufflating as soon as my back is turned.”

Mycroft paused, waiting for Sherlock to respond, but when his brother offered no further argument, Mycroft added, carefully, “Now, if you would promise me that you won’t take anything else, I could see what I can do.”

“This is absurd! You’re treating me like a child.”

“You’re acting like a child. A vain, arrogant, self-destructive little boy who can’t even promise to go one day without blasting himself into a state of altered awareness—”

Before Mycroft could even finish the sentence, Sherlock turned around, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

A moment later, Mycroft heard the shattering of glass, and he knew another mirror had become the victim of his brother’s mercurial temper. 

Mycroft took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then he stood up, walked across the room, and cautiously opened the door that his brother had slammed shut a few moments ago. 

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, taking shallow breaths, staring at the pieces of shattered glass on the ground. 

Mycroft made his way into the room, carefully avoiding the shards of glass that littered the floor. He sat down in the desk chair a few feet from his brother, and for several long minutes, waited to see if Sherlock would say anything. When he was only greeted by silence, he asked, “Why are you doing this to yourself?” 

“You don’t know what it’s like.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“This—life—existing. It doesn’t eat you alive, make you want to crawl out of your skin, make you regret ever taking your first breath.”

Mycroft let out a deep sigh.  “Do you honestly believe you’re the only person to ever experience boredom? We are not like the masses, that’s true, but I’ve found a way to balance the needs of my superior intellect with the drudgeries of every day life.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, fire dancing in his eyes, his voice tense and hoarse, “It’s not the _same._ I can see it in your expression, in every muscle in your body. Yes I know—you’re the smart one—smarter than me, smarter than everyone—but you don’t have that ticking time bomb inside of you, you don’t _need_ the stimulation, the excitement, the way I do.” 

“That may be so, but even still—this is the brain you were born with. This is the life you’ve been given. Railing against it won’t change anything.”  
  
“No, but the drugs do. The drugs give me the stimulation I crave—or at least they dampen the excruciating itch. I need it—you don’t understand how badly I need it.” 

“Badly enough to risk your life?”  
  
“That’s the point of lives. They’re meant to be risked—meant to be lived.”  
  
“This isn’t living, Sherlock.”  
  
“How would you know?” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re a stuffed shirt, and you’ve spent your whole life doing what you were _supposed_ to do. You hate your job. You hate the people you spend your day with. In fact, you seem to despise everyone and everything, but you’re too much of a coward to do anything about it.”  
  
“I don’t hate my job.”  
  
“Do you like it?”  
  
Sighing, Mycroft said, “That’s not the point of jobs.”  
  
“Maybe not for some people, but when all you do is work—” 

“Sherlock, stop making this about me.”  
  
“I’m not—” 

“Yes, you are. You can tear my life apart all you want, but at least I’m not destroying my mind and my body with drugs.”  
  
“It’s my life to destroy.”  
  
“Come now, Sherlock, are you really that self absorbed? Do you honestly think your actions don’t have effects on anyone else?”  
  
“I don’t care about anyone else.”  
  
“Fine, you may not care about me, but are you really so unconcerned with Mummy? You know how she worries about you.”  
  
“She won’t worry if you don’t tell her about this.”  
  
“And I’m not planning too.”  
  
With disbelief, Sherlock responded, “You aren’t?”  
  
“I see no point in concerning either of our parents with this.”  
  
Caught off guard, Sherlock said, “Oh,” and a moment later, “Good.”  
  
“Under one condition.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And what would that be?”  
  
“No more, Sherlock. This ends now. If I ever catch you using again—if I have even the slightest suspicion—well, Mummy will be the least of your concerns.”  
  
Mycroft waited, and when he didn’t get any response from Sherlock, he prompted, “Do we have an agreement?”  
  
“Yes, yes, of course.”  
  
“Good, now get up off the floor while I clean up this mess you’ve made.” 

Sherlock pushed himself up, swaying slightly as all the blood rushed to his head. 

Instinctively, Mycroft reached out to help steady him. 

Quietly, Mycroft said, “I think one trip to the doctor is enough for the day. Let’s get you into bed before you do any more damage to yourself.”  
  
Petulantly, Sherlock said, “I don’t want to go to bed.”  
  
“You need to give your body a chance to recover, Sherlock.”  
  
“Fine, but I’ll do it on the sofa. I’ll go crazy if I have to spend the rest of the evening just staring at the ceiling in my bedroom.”  
  
“Very well. I’ll be there in a bit.”  
  
As Sherlock turned to go, Mycroft took in his unsteady gate and said, “Exactly how long has it been since you’ve eaten anything?”  
  
Without turning around, Sherlock responded “We got take out last night.”  
  
“That was four days ago.”  
  
“Oh, well then four days.”  
  
Mycroft opened his mouth ready to reprimands, but instead he let out a sigh and said, “Couch, now. I’m going to order dinner, and you’re going to eat everything I put on your plate.”  
  
“Taking this whole pretending to be Mummy thing a little far aren’t you?”  
  
“Don’t test me, Sherlock.”  
  
And for once in his life, Sherlock didn’t. 

Instead he made his way slowly to the living room, where he carefully stretched himself out on the couch, and turned on the TV. 

Mycroft comes in a little while later, and he sits down in the arm chair. 

“I ordered Thai. I hope that’s acceptable.”  
  
“Did you get the spring rolls?”  
  
“Yes.”

“Good. And the chicken satay?” 

“Sherlock, I ordered the same thing we always order.” 

“Does that mean you got the disgusting dish with the mushrooms?”  
  
“Yes, but only because I know you won’t try to steal any of it off my plate.” 

As Mycroft is speaking, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on the couch, wincing slightly. Mycroft watches him closely before saying, “If you eat dinner, and if you agree to spend the next 48 hours at home, recovering from your injuries, I’ll let you take something for the pain. But don’t try to fight with me to get more, and don’t even think about trying to sneak out of the house.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
A moment later, Sherlock says, “So, are you going to handcuff me to the bed?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“To make sure I don’t sneak away. After all, aren’t you going to work on Monday? Or are you planning on hiring arms guards to keep me in check?”  
  
“I’ll call in sick.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Aren’t you always insisting that the entire country will fall into chaos if you aren’t constantly available to prevent our demise?” 

Offhandedly, Mycroft says, “I’m sure they’ll get on without me for one day.” 

Then, as he stands up and heads to the kitchen he adds, quietly enough so that they can both pretend Sherlock hasn’t heard— 

“And I would let all of England fall if it meant keeping you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I’d throw in a nice little Mycroft being a concerned older brother moment. After all, there’s lots of angst ahead for both of them. (Also, I’m simultaneously working on my much sadder story, In Absentia, so it’s nice to have some Sherlock-Mycroft bonding.)
> 
> Anyway, if you have a chance, please let me know what you think of the story! I’m doing my best to keep everyone in character. I do so much love the way Sherlock and Mycroft bicker in the series.
> 
> The next chapter is tentatively titled, “Better than Drugs,” and it will include a cameo appearance by DI Lestrade, plus some crime solving. Stay tuned!


	4. Better Than Drugs

Sherlock was making his way through the streets of London, still fresh in the glow and buzz of a recent hit of cocaine, when he caught sight of flashing police lights. 

Pushing past the crowd of onlookers, he immediately started to take in the scene—a body sprawled across the ground, pieces of shattered glass, but no car in sight. Then, looking past the scene, he caught sight of one of Walt’s homeless cohort. He quickly made his way over to the alley where the woman, Alice, was watching the scene with a distinct look of disinterest.

 After a very short but enlightening conversation, Sherlock slipped her a five quid, and then walked purposefully to the two lead officers who were talking amongst themselves. 

Once he was within ear shot, he heard one of them say, “Simple hit and run. Open and shut.”  

Loudly, Sherlock interjects, “Just because you lot are simple doesn’t mean the crime has to be.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Do I know you?”  

“No, but I know you Gary Lestrade.”  

“First of all, it’s Greg. Second of all—”

“Greg, Gary, that’s not important. What’s important is that you’re wrong—you’re all wrong. About this, and about several other recent cases. But let’s focus on the current murder for the moment.”

One of the other officers made a move towards Sherlock, but Lestrade waved him away and said, “Well go on then. Enlighten us.”

“First of all, take note of the ring on his finger.”

  “So the bloke was married. How’s that—” 

“Ah, but then look right over there, on the pavement. A diamond ring—his wife’s diamond ring.” 

“So the wife pushed him into traffic?”

  “It gets better than that.”

  Incredulous, Lestrade asks, “Are you actually enjoying this?”  

But Sherlock ignores him. 

“I was just having a chat with Alice—”  

“Wait, who?”  

“Homeless network. Absolutely invaluable, and they’re a good deal smarter than most of you Scotland Yard-ers. You have to be if you’re going to make a living on the streets of London.”  

“What? A homeless network?”  

“Yes, yes, but back to the matter at hand. According to Alice, an hour before, this man was seen conversing with the driver of the car that would kill him, and a rather large sum of money exchanged hands.”

At this point, a different officer interjects, “So he paid off the driver to kill him?”

“Are you lot really this dense? No, he didn’t pay the driver to kill him. He paid the driver to kill his wife.”

  Now, Lestrade asks, “But why would he do that?”

  “I would wager she was quite well off—most likely family money, based on the ring. Clearly an antique, well cared for, very expensive, most likely a family heirloom. His ring, on the other hand, much newer, plainer, so most likely her engagement ring was inherited from her wealthy family.” 

“So what does that—”

  “If he killed her, he would inherit the money, and then he and his mistress could live quite comfortably.”

  “So he was having an affair?”

  “Yes, obviously. Why else would he and his wife get into a screaming fight, with her chucking her rings into the street?”

  “Well, maybe there was trouble at home or—”

 “Balance of probability says affair. After all, clearly the wife was angry enough not to stick around after her husband got hit by a car. I would say it’s quite likely that his mistress was a friend of the wife’s, someone that made this adultery particularly personal.”

“Okay, even if all of that is true, you haven’t given us a whole lot to go on.”

“Do I have to do everything? There’s security footage at the café and the convenience store on the corner owned by the Indian couple. Not the one run by the Americans. That one is completely useless, and their cigarettes are _so_ overpriced. 

“Anyway, find the driver based on the plate, offer him a plea deal, and he’ll fill you in on any of the details you’re lacking.”

After giving orders to the other officers, Lestrade turns back to Sherlock and says, “That was brilliant, but you must be coked up out of your mind.”  

“That’s a very serious accusation to be wielding, Sargent.”

  “Detective Inspector, in fact.”  

“Ah yes, but you’re quite new at this. Just a little over a month, I would say.”  

“I don't see—” 

“You’ll be wanting to get off to a good start.” In one swift movement, Sherlock pulled out a piece of paper—his calling card so to speak, with his name, phone number, and _Consulting_ Detective scribbled in pen—and he tucked it into Lestrade’s coat pocket.

  He then added, “Call me with any of your interesting cases.” 

With that, Sherlock turned to go, but Lestrade called out—  

“Empty all your pockets.”

 “Why would I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to take you into custody.”

  “On what charges?”  

“Interfering with a criminal investigation.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he did as Lestrade requested. Obviously he wasn’t stupid enough to carry drugs on his person when investigating a crime scene.

As Lestrade watches him, Sherlock says, rhetorically, “I help you solve a case and this is the thanks I get?”  

“It’s for your own bloody good. And if I do ever call you in on anymore cases—and mind you, I’m not saying that I will—you sure as hell better not show up under the influence, or I will haul your arse in and book you.”

  Shaking his head, Lestrade adds, “Now go sleep it off. You’re too smart to be playing with fire like that.”  

In an unusual moment of candor, before Sherlock can stop himself, he says, “That’s where you’re very wrong, Detective Inspector. I’m too smart _not_ to be doing this.”  

And with that, Sherlock turned and strode away, leaving a very confused Detective Inspector in his wake. 

 

   


By the time Sherlock got home—he walked the whole way, too filled with pent up energy to sit motionless in a taxi cab or stand in one place waiting for the Tube—it was already quite late, and his brother had long ago turned off all the lights and gone to sleep, no doubt expecting that Sherlock would be out all night as had been his custom recently. 

In no mood to deal with his brother, Sherlock moved soundlessly through the house, not bothering to turn on the lights. After all, he had memorized every detail already. He knew there were 15 steps leading from the first floor to the second. He knew that the couch was 5 strides into the living room. He knew where every creaky floor board was located, and took particular care to avoid the one outside Mycroft’s room.

Once he made it to his own room, Sherlock took off his shoes and his overcoat, and then jumped into bed, overcome with a pleasant exhaustion, quite different from the usual painful, restless fatigue that came on as a result of the drugs wearing off.

 As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help but think maybe he had found the one thing better than being on drugs—solving crimes.

   


 

The next morning he wakes earlier than usual, filled with a renewed energy. He hopped out of bed, threw on a clean pair of trousers and a fresh shirt, and then he eagerly and loudly trampled his way down the stairs and practically skipped into the kitchen, where he saw Mycroft sitting at the table eating a scone absentmindedly while reading some papers.

Sherlock greeted Mycroft cheerfully. “Good morning, brother dear.”

Dryly, Mycroft replies, “Is it?” 

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Mycroft adds, “Is that how you felt before you did a line of cocaine?” 

“Your powers of observation are slipping, brother mine. I’ve done nothing of the sort.”  

“Then what could possibly account for your markedly out of character good cheer this morning? It’s not usually your custom to be up and about at such an early hour.”

  “I have to get an early start. There must be some investigation into a gruesome murder that Scotland Yard is currently bolloxing.”

“What are you—”

  “Yesterday I came upon Scotland Yard cluelessly trying to solve a simple hit and run which was anything but, and I helped nudge them in the right direction.”  

“Did you now?”  

Ignoring Mycroft’s condescending tone, Sherlock says, “Yes, you see—”

 “Please, spare me the details.”

  “You’re just jealous because you spend your day holding the hand of high ranking incompetent diplomats.”  

“I’m not _jealous_ I can assure you.” 

 “Oh really?”  

“Yes, of course. Why would I be jealous of you running around like a common police officer, wasting your time when you could be devoting yourself to your studies.”  

“It’s not a waste—”

 “Spare me, Sherlock. I’m in no mood for your petty arguments. If you want to waste your time on these silly flights of fancy when you should be studying or failing that, finding a respectable job so that Mummy and Daddy don’t have to worry about you ending up in the poorhouse, then by all means, be my guest."

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns on his heel, and strides quickly out of the kitchen. A moment later, Mycroft hears the loud bang of the front door slamming.   

For an instant, Mycroft feels a pang of regret—maybe he was too harsh, after all Sherlock could be getting up to worse things—but he quickly shakes off the concerns and returns to his work.

For his part, Sherlock is already walking quickly through the streets, his feet pounding with a satisfying thump on the pavement, as his mind runs through all the many things he wish he had said to his brother.

He doesn’t pay attention to where his feet are taking him, and half an hour later when he finally takes stock of his surroundings, he realizes he is a few short steps away from his usual pick up spot. He stands it that spot, motionless, considers turning around, going to find a crime, going to the lab, going anywhere but here, but—driven by a desire to spite his brother and propelled by a deep need that he can’t even put words to—he strides forward, money already in hand, his brain and body both crying out for the next hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, although it did take a bit of a dark turn towards the end. The next chapter, which is called "Flatline" doesn't promise to be any happier, I'm afraid. 
> 
> The good news is that chapter 5 is already pretty much done, so I'm going to try to post it some time in the next couple days. 
> 
> If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!


	5. Flatline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised here's chapter 5! Be warned, it's pretty angst-y, as you probably could have guessed from the title.

Mycroft felt like his entire world shattered. 

The moment he walked into his brother’s bedroom, and saw Sherlock slumped over, sitting on the floor, his back propped up against the bed, completely still, no movement in his chest, pulse imperceptible.  
  
He felt like his insides were being ripped to shreds as he picked up the phone, dialed 9-9-9, and somehow found the words to request an ambulance.

His heart was in his throat as he carefully rearranged his brother on the floor—there was already a bluish tint around Sherlock’s lips—and started the chest compressions, desperate to get some oxygen flowing, knowing that if he wanted to save his brother, that meant he had to save his brain. 

How long can the body go without oxygen before permanent brain damage is inevitable? He should know the answer—he does know the answer—but for once in his life emotion gets the better of reason, and all he can feel—all he can think about—is the fear.  
  
It felt brutal, to be using such force on his brother, pressing down with the palm of his hand at the soft point below his sternum—over and over again—in a steady rhythm—and then a pause as he tried to feel for a pulse, but his own blood was pounding so loudly that he couldn’t tell anything—all he knew was that his brother’s skin felt cold and clammy.

The minute the paramedics arrived, he stepped back to let them do their work, while he watched helplessly from the edge of the room as they made their notes, searched for vital signs, began CPR themselves. It was like watching a movie, only this was real, this was Sherlock, his brother who could—might be—

His thoughts were interrupted by one of the paramedics asking him questions.

_Do you know how this happened?_

At first all he could do was shake his head. He felt like the power of speech had left him, as if any remaining breath he had was used up.

But of course, he did know. And so he told him.

Drugs. 

_What kind of drugs?_

Who knows? Probably heroin, if the trackmarks and used up syringes were any indication. And of course, respiratory distress is a common cause of death— 

Death

His brother—his brother, Sherlock—could die. He couldn’t—how could he—without Sherlock—what would he do? How could he tell his parents— _their_ parents—how could he tell Mummy and Daddy that Sherlock was dead?

It would break their mother’s heart. She would start sobbing—she always has been the most expressive member of the family—and their father—well, his grief would be quieter, but no less sharp, no less painful for its silent expression.

They would be devastated. How could any of them survive it? Sherlock was the baby of the family—always has been—he was supposed to outlive them all.

Mycroft was eight years old when Sherlock was born. He was an only child up until the moment that he got that news—you’re going to have a baby brother—and, although there have been many times where he has resented Sherlock’s presence in his life, he never would have had it any other way.

Would he be an only child again, without Sherlock? Is that how it goes?

No, he can’t—some things you can’t go back to.  
  
So what would that make him? An older brother, without a younger brother.

Forever after, he’ll have to go through life with a hole in his heart—a hole in his life—a Sherlock-shaped hole.  
  
How could he do this? How could this happen? It wasn’t supposed to happen, not to Sherlock, not to his brilliant, stupid, reckless little brother. 

He always felt a responsibility for Sherlock, to educate him, to protect him. To save him. 

But he couldn’t. He had failed. He couldn’t save Sherlock from himself.  
  
What would he do without his brother? Sherlock was all he had when they were boys. The only one who came close to understanding him, to matching him intellectually, to understanding the way he saw the world.

How was he supposed to—

“Sir! Sir!”  
  
The shouting broke him out of his thoughts, and he forced his eyes to focus on the paramedic in front of him.         

“Would you like to ride in the ambulance with us? We’re taking him to the hospital now.”  
  
“Yes—yes of course.”  
  
“Okay, they’re outside.”  
  
He’d never ridden in an ambulance before, never wanted to, hoped never to do this again, and years later, he would barely remember the details of that drive.  
  
He was unaware of the speed of the ambulance as it dodged traffic—the wail of the sirens faded into the background. His entire focus was on his brother—the expression on his face, the stillness of his body.

And although he has never been a man of faith, Mycroft found himself praying to something—to someone, to anyone—

_Please let my brother be okay._

 

 

 

Mycroft spent all night by his brother’s bedside, watching over his brother, willing him to hold on, willing him to wake up. He felt like Sherlock’s struggle with every breath was his struggle as well.

Then, finally, miraculously, Sherlock finally came back to consciousness, and the first word out of his mouth was, “Myke?”  
  
Instantly, Mycroft was on his feet, and he grasped his brother’s left hand in both of his, as he said, “It’s me, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes again, as he said, quietly, “Stay.”  
  
Sherlock was already slipping back into sleep as Mycroft responded with, “Of course,” but that didn’t stop Mycroft from pulling the chair closer to the bed, so that he could sit hunched over, staring at his brother’s sleeping figure. 

Mycroft could only hope and pray that this would be enough—finally, please god, let this be enough—to stop his brother’s desperate path of self destruction.

 

 

 

The next morning, Sherlock awoke again, but this time he was fully lucid, and back to being his sharp, sarcastic, vibrant self. 

In a quieter moment, when the nurses and doctors were out of the room, Mycroft tried to start a conversation that he had rehearsed over the many silent hours of waiting by his brother’s hospital bed.

“Sherlock, we need to discuss what to do about this.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Mycroft. I’ve learned my lesson.”  
  
“Have you?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”

“There are treatment centers—people I could put you in touch with—”

But Sherlock just waved him off.  
  
“That’s pointless. I’m not some kind of mindless junkie. Besides, those places would be so _boring_.”  
  
“Sherlock—”

Suddenly Sherlock’s temper spiked.  
  
“What else do you want me to say, Mycroft? I’ve promised you I won’t do it again. Now stop badgering me and get the nurses to bring me some decent food.” 

Mycroft let the matter drop. What good would it possibly do to argue with Sherlock any further? But he wasn’t comforted by any of his brother’s assurances.

 

   
 

It was hard to say whether Sherlock even believed any of the words out of his own mouth, but either way, when Mycroft came to the hospital 48 hours later to pick up his brother, he found an empty hospital room and a nurse who said, “Your brother discharged himself two hours ago.”  
  
Mycroft felt the breath rush out of him as the fear flooded in. He turned around and walked at a pace that was closer to a dead run, until he got back outside and into the car.  
  
He would spent the next five hours driving around London in search of his brother—he tried all the usual places, and then the unusual ones, and then he spent thirty minutes searching every back alley that he could think of, but there was no sign of Sherlock.

Feeling defeated and emotionally devastated, Mycroft returned to the family home. When he got to the door, he noticed with a surge of hope that the knocker had been knocked off balance, and the light in the kitchen was now turned on.

He rushed inside, calling out, “Sherlock!”

He got no response, but he followed the string of lights and opened doors—his brother never had learned to tidy up after himself—until he reached his brother’s bedroom—

And there, with the covers thrown off the bed, shoeless but otherwise still fully dressed, Sherlock slept soundly, his breathing quiet but visible. 

Mycroft was light headed with relief, and he sank down to his knees, his legs unable to bear his weight any more. As he tried to catch his breath, his eyes settled on his brother’s right arm—the crook of his elbow was visible below the rolled up sleeve—and he thought he could see in the dim light, another hole, fresher than all the others—

No, it couldn’t be, not now, not after everything, not so soon after nearly dying—

He didn’t want to believe—didn’t want to know—but he couldn’t stop himself, so he dragged his unwilling body closer to the bed, and he started to reach for his brother’s arm, but then he stopped dead, as he caught sight of something that had rolled under the edge of the bed—

A syringe, fresh, recently used.

Mycroft picked it up and stared at it, before throwing it across the room. 

He launched it with such force that it hit one of his brother’s empty beakers, knocking it to the ground, where it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. 

Exhausted, overwhelmed, beyond desperate, and completely helpless, Mycroft leaned against the wall, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed.

Through it all, Sherlock didn’t stir, except for the almost invisible rise and fall of his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty heavy chapter, but I hope it still made for a good read. The next couple chapters are already at least 3/4 done, and they'll be diving a lot deeper into the Mycroft/Sherlock relationship. These two have a lot to hash out.
> 
> Anyway, I'm hoping to get the next chapter posted within the next week or so. I've really appreciated the feedback I've gotten on the story so far, and I'd love to get feedback on this latest chapter as well. Thanks for reading :)


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